


In Your Heart Shall Burn

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [26]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cliché!, Drama, Guardian Angels, I had to get it out of my system, M/M, Multi, bilbo/thorin/dwalin - Freeform, i'm a dramaqueen, in case any of you haven't realised yet, this was driving me nuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: Leaving the Shire does not only mean throwing away the Gift generously given to them by the Green Lady, it also means never coming back.
Bilbo still runs after the dwarves, for, really, this choice it is not a choice at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally managed to pull myself free of all those other fandoms trying to keep me captive and return to Middle-Earth – and managed to get caught up in this right away instead of working on SOO. I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. Forgive me?
> 
> …and yes, I filled my own prompt (see here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25353845#t25353845)  
> I also didn’t meet even half of my conditions.  
> But, you know, things happen. Other bunnies want their screen time, too…  
> (Or rather: an attempt to get Dwalin out of my head and my OTP -.-)
> 
> And yes, the title is taken from a Dragon Age: Inquisition quest. (I absolutely adore them.)

### In Your Heart Shall Burn

Bilbo goes after them because, on a level accessible only to the unique ways of hobbits, he knows – he _feels_ that they need him, that they might not succeed without the help of a Guardian.

That they deserve one.

It is his misfortune, he supposes, that for centuries no hobbit has left the Shire, no matter how many men and elves and dwarves might have needed Guardians to watch over them, to assist them with overcoming whatever life threw at them. (And there are few these days who actually remember that they ought to be out there, and who still feel the guilt of having abandoned their Charges.)

He also senses a certain emptiness in some of the dwarves, one that means that they were destined to have a Guardian who would watch over them (for by far not every soul out there was made to be thusly accompanied by another), that somewhere there is a hobbit who was meant to protect them-

…

The one called Dori has a deep, sombre Shadow darkening the Light that makes up his very soul.

So has Bifur. (Although his is rawer than the desolate one the eldest of the three brothers feels, and more frayed around the edges.)

And Óin.

The latter two must have fought in battles, he believes, due to the exact shade and feeling of the Shadows, the harshness dampening their Lights. Being the son of Belladonna Took Bilbo Baggins of Bag End is more adept than most hobbits are these days at recognizing the kinds of Guardians others should have had, and it is Defenders those two are missing.

Tooks.

It is mostly Tooks, after all, and a few Brandybucks, who have the Strength and the courage to help their Charges through war and blood and death – for who else would be crazy enough to follow anyone into a battle, and stand with them against fate itself?

The third one, Dori, should have had a Comforter.

The Baggins and Proudfoot branches are the ones to bring forth the most Comforters; those Guardians meant to help a shaken soul through particularly trying times and keep them together when otherwise they would be falling apart.

Bilbo watches them as they pile around his dining room table, their Lights brushing against his own, which spreads out upon meeting possible Charges, and the Shadows on their souls physically _pain_ him, betraying how much they would have needed a Guardian who was not there.

Having them in the same smial, in the same _room_ … is torturous in ways he never thought possible-

…

There is one, though, whose presence hurts even worse than the others’.

Dwalin was the first to arrive, and Bilbo allowed him to enter before having even thought about it, completely overwhelmed and shocked by the _Pull_ he had felt the moment the tall warrior’s Light had brushed against his own.

Like almost all hobbits these days he has, of course, never felt it before.

That sensation, of meeting your Charge – Belladonna had described it to be electrifying. (There had been a reason Gandalf had visited the Shire so often while she had still lived. A Guardian may be able to do little to actively help a wizard, but being with her had always calmed the Grey Pilgrim, and reminded him of what was important, given her Strength, or so he had claimed. All Bilbo can say on the matter is that her death left the Grey Wizard as distraught as Bungo, if in different ways.)

If feeling the emptiness in the others is painful, feeling it in Dwalin is _agonizing_. It is bile in his throat, fire down his spine, a hole in his heart-

Had he met him _before_ , Bilbo knows, before everything that left all those jagged edges and raw wounds, still able to help him as he should – there would have been no agony to be felt (by neither of them), nothing but the Pull.

Now, however… he senses everything that has happened to the warrior, everything he had to go through without his Guardian, and that _Failure_ – is like a knife through Bilbo’s heart, being twisted and pushed in deeper every time he feels that sharp, empty Shadow push against his own Light.

Had he not been hiding away in the Shire, but out there – he could have spared the warrior many a pain. Whether he would have survived it he knows not, for that is the fate of Defenders. Ever ready to risk what might be necessary to care for their Charges, as any other good Guardian. But the knowledge that doing his bloody duty might have killed Bilbo matters little in the face of this depth of Failure, there to lap against his own Light with every movement either of them makes.

He is so preoccupied with dealing with that fact, that realization, that he almost forgets to be troubled by the fact that Dwalin’s Guardian… is a Defender.

No matter how much of a Took his mother used to be, no matter how tempted he might have been to wander as a faunt, Bilbo has _always_ been a Baggins – in name and blood and any way that matters, including his position.

He is a Comforter, and was born to be a Comforter, but the exact shade of the emptiness in Dwalin leaves no doubt: A Defender ought to have been there.

_He_ ought to have been there-

…

There is entirely too much going on for Bilbo to be able to process that, never mind the twelve – twelve! Thanks a bloody lot, Gandalf! – dwarves in his smial, emptying his pantries and taking no care whatsoever with his possessions, the constant pain of being in the same room as his neglected Charge taking all self-control he might have to offer.

Oh, it _hurts_ -

When the dwarves proceed to throwing his mother’s china about (one of the few treasured mementos he has allowed himself to keep, plates and cups and bowls both Bungo and Gandalf used to be fed off), and singing a decidedly insulting song (really, this is the Wizard’s masterplan of talking him into agreeing to come to whatever ‘adventure’ he has dragged here?) it is all he can do not to have a fit and explode in their faces and throw them out of his smial (and wouldn’t it _hurt_ , sending his Charge away again, with that gaping _hole_ in his Light – and also, they have nowhere else to sleep) but they are one more song, one more word, one more throw from snapping the tiny thread that remains of his patience, worn so thin already by Dwalin’s agonizing presence.

Gandalf- … Gandalf, as usual, is no help at all (and just how did his mother put up with the old codger?), amusing himself at Bilbo’s expense, and the hobbit cannot help but wonder what image the Grey Pilgrim must have of hobbits, thinking they will voluntarily follow him into adventures if treated thusly-

…

Then, of course, there is an interruption before Bilbo ever gets to berating Gandalf.

The heavy knock at the door carries a sense of foreboding that makes him shiver with more than anticipation – the reason for which he finds out entirely too soon.

 

~*~*~

 

There are, of course, legends – old tales still spoken of these days despite the peaceful life they have long since settled into, whispering of times when hobbits still fulfilled their task of watching over the free peoples of Middle-Earth. Old songs and fairy tales told to impatient fauns to occupy them during family gatherings and parties, speaking of the beings they once were. Powerful verses praising the courage of devoted Defenders alternating with warnings about the horrible deaths some of them fell to, and warm odes to the careful, calming Words received by many a Comforter’s Charge, and sweet poems about tender Caretakers and the children they lovingly raised, and heavy ballads about the fantastic and peaceful lands conjured by imaginative Dreamwatchers, and merry carols artfully listing the many accidents prevented by dedicated Catchers. Those old stories are nothing special, and told to every young one. Every hobbit should, after all, know where they come from, even if the peace-loving Shire-folk long since abandoned this task. No, there is nothing special to be found in the legends told many a merry evening.

There are, however, a few stories – told far less often, and spoken of only in whispers – which are not at all ordinary. Legends of hobbits who were _more_.

Some talk of those who had extraordinary Charges – Kings or Queens or wizards, like Belladonna Baggins (although barely a hobbit ever realized what Gandalf’s frequent visits really implied, stuck in their happy ignorance as they are) or Azalea Stoor, Dreamwatcher of Durin III. Others speak of Guardians who had to do their duty being no more than children themselves, their Charges in dire need of their help much sooner than they should have been. A precious few tell of being assigned a second protégé if the death of the first one could not be prevented. It is only the Tooks that whisper of the small number who had a special bond with their Charge, one of telepathy or empathy or something similar. Even fewer still acknowledge that several hobbits had to take a position they were never meant to take when the need arose – Dreamwatchers acting as Comforters, or Catchers as Caretakers. And but a total of three hobbits ever had two Charges at the same time.

It is most absurd, Bilbo cannot help but think, that both he and his mother should be special, like those Guardians in the legends nobody now talks of.

(It is also most unfair, his mind quite un-helpfully adds, that he should be tortured thusly twice-fold.)

 

~*~*~

 

Thorin Oakenshield comes crashing into Bilbo’s life like a force, well-neigh unstoppable.

As he steps into Bag End his Light, painfully tainted though it may be, _slams_ into the hobbit’s, and he finds himself almost unable to breathe upon the sudden onslaught of memories and Failings and agony-

…

There is no way, _no way_ , Bilbo should be the Guardian of two dwarves at the same time – there is no way Bilbo should be the Defender of two warriors.

There is no way Bilbo would have been able to prevent all the terrible things that must have happened to Dwalin, son of Fundin, and Thorin, son of Thráin, Prince under the Mountain.

 

~*~*~

 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf says, tearing him from the torturous sensation of having that jagged, sharp mass of _nothing_ threatening to swallow what should be such a bright Light whole pound against his soul (and, somewhere, Bilbo still hears the wizard’s pain of having lost his Guardian, his inner peace, in his voice), “allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”

_I would not have needed an introduction_ , the hobbit almost desperately wants to yell, _I know him, I can feel every great moment of change and pain in his life, every single Failure of mine, all his agony-_

“So,” Thorin raises his deep, rumbling voice (which might have been almost soothing if not for the harsh, mocking tone) and steps forward, the jagged Shadow upon his Light painfully pressing against Bilbo’s, a thousand sharp edges continuously sliding across it and leaving just as many shallow, bleeding cuts, “this is the hobbit. Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

_Of course not!_ Bilbo wants to yell, _I am a bloody Comforter, thank you very much!_ A Comforter, not a Defender, or rather he _should_ be a Comforter, and anyway, wherever would he have found a fight, having never left the peaceful Shire, much like every other hobbit?! (And he tries not to think of the Fell Winter with everything he has.) The constant pain, however, stays his voice, as does the deeply-ingrained instinct not to spill his people’s secrets.

“Ax or Sword, what is your weapon of choice?”

In the doorway Dwalin, who is watching them with deep, bottomless eyes (Failure!, every single spark of pain in them cries), chuckles with cruel mirth even as the empty nothingness lapping at his Light joins Thorin’s sharp edges, and Bilbo barely manages to keep standing upright when all he wants to do is double over in pain, the absolute _agony_ of the knowledge that no, he could not have protected them, not even if he had been there (unborn as he had been at that time) too much to stand, he is a Comforter and no use at fighting but they are right, they _are right_ , he Failed them, he _should have tried_ -

 

~*~*~

 

A dragon.

They want him to come with them, to leave the Shire, and to steal from a possibly live dragon. (To not stand by their side, but leave it to be fried to a crisp all alone-)

Gandalf knows, he _knows_ what it means for a hobbit to leave this place, and also knows that Bilbo is a Comforter. He knows, and still he is asking the trembling hobbit to do this, an excited sparkle in his undiscernible eyes. There is, of course, a certain possibility that he hopes, maybe even expects, that one of these dwarves might be his Charge. Or maybe he hopes that Bilbo will chose to act as Thorin’s Guardian, whether he truly is it or not (it has always been a fact that Big Folk do not understand the explanations on Charges and how this works, no matter how often given – apparently not even wizards are exempt from this rule).

Why has he come here, to Bilbo of all people?

Why has he chosen to bring this agony upon him?

Balin – _Brother to my Charge!_ his very soul cries out – hands Bilbo a contract, a slight smile on his lips. He, at least, offers a little kindness where the others are giving naught but mock and scorn. The hobbit reaches for it despite his better knowledge, knowing already that he will come with them no matter their disdain and the further progression of this evening. Failure is burning behind his eyes, at the back of his head, down his spine, deep in his heart-

It is too much to stand, and he knows, deep down, that there is no choice for him.

Still, he unfolds the contract and delves into the neatly written lines with the ferocity he usually reserves for delving into the meat-pies made according to his mama’s special recipe, hoping to draw some measure of comfort at least from familiarity. A welcome, if short, distraction, for he soon finds that concentrating is almost impossible at this point.

Do not think about what you have done, or rather have not done, have Failed to do; Do not let it get to you; Do not concentrate on where their Lights are brushing against yours, ever dark and hungry; Do not give in to the pain, it is no physical ache, they would not understand; Do not look at them; Do not think about what they have gone through; Do not let the darkness swallow you; Do not-

…

_Incineration?_

…

Sometimes some things are simply too much.

He is but a hobbit, after all, and a Comforter at that. In no world, no matter how twisted and cruel, should he have to deal with this.

 

~*~*~

 

“Why did you come for me, Gandalf?” Bilbo tiredly asks after he has finally regained consciousness, sounding appallingly miserable (and feeling it, too). They might be in another room, but that is still more than close enough to feel his Failure – and even if they were not, he doubts that he will ever un-feel it. “Did you come because of my mother? Because, no matter what you may wish, I am not her.” A low jab, perhaps, but after the evening he has put him through Bilbo feels he is more than entitled a little retaliation.

“I know,” Gandalf, who is sitting at the other end of the old tea table, says, shoulders hunched, and suddenly he seems to be terribly tired. The wizard’s Light is larger than any the hobbit has ever encountered before (or ever will encounter, he suspects), and yet it is no stranger to him. He has grown up with it all over the place, and there is no darkness to be found here, just the dull grey of a no longer existent presence. A scar, long scabbed over and healed, but visible none the less. Like a missing limb, hurting no more, yet sometimes one would try to use it before remembering that it is gone.

The wizard says no more, and Bilbo sighs impatiently. He knows what Gandalf has lost, oh, he _knows_. He can feel it with every gentle brush of the Grey Pilgrim’s Light against his own, battered one.

He, too, has lost her.

“Why did you come for a hobbit, then?”

The answer is obvious, of course, seeing as Gandalf is well aware of hobbits’ abilities. Apparently, however, he has forgotten what that he is asking for would entail. And, oh, Bilbo knows – he will follow them, follow Thorin wherever he will need.

Which is not for Gandalf to know.

He would not understand the pain, the _torture_ -

“I already explained,” the wizard finally speaks up, voice carefully bland as so often, “Smaug would not recognize your scent, he has never smelled any of your kind befo-”

“Of course he hasn’t!” Bilbo yells, interrupting the Grey Pilgrim, for that is sort of the crux, isn’t it? Smaug could not have smelled any of his kind before. For good reason. “How would he? No hobbit has left the Shire in centuries!”

“Exactly,” Gandalf nods, rummaging through the numerous pockets of his robe for his pipe, and Bilbo stares at him, aghast.

“Then why do you think I would?” _When not even my mother did, for everything that she offered you?_

“It would do you some good,” the Grey Pilgrim remarks, pipe finally found and eyes at the picture of Bullroarer Took – the last known Defender, who went and followed his Charge into a full-blown war.

Bilbo, in the meantime, gasps for air. The sharp edges and the dull nothingness are still grating against his own Light, perhaps not as strongly as before but ever-present, and he tightens his fingers around his teacup until he almost fears he might break it. Gandalf’s content ignorance, too, is almost too much to bear.

“Do me- … do me some good? What, exactly, did my mother tell you was the reason she never came with you?”

Perhaps it is not the wizard’s fault after all. Perhaps it is simply a misunderstanding, no ill intent or meddling. Perhaps-

“Because there are laws against leaving,” Gandalf hums, lighting the pipe with his fingers (scorching them in the process) and inhaling deeply.

“Did she also tell you what happens if we do leave?” Bilbo asks tiredly, all fight suddenly having left him. Exhausted, he reaches out for the dull greyness. He is almost able to feel the lingering traces of Belladonna’s presence, locked tightly into the place where it should be.

“Well, you would be punished I imagine… though nothing too severe, I suppose, for you hobbits are not extreme in any way.”

Gandalf’s eyes are on the portrait of Bullroarer Took again.

Is this what he imagines their careful hiding to be like? Apparently, his mother never gave her Charge all the answers – a wise decision, perhaps, seeing as how hobbits react to facing the neglection of their Guardian duties these days. Had anyone found out that she spoke some of their secrets to an Outsider, the consequences might have been dire, for all that Bungo would have supported her in every possible way.

Yes, at that point it had probably been the sensible choice to make.

Now, however, Bilbo cannot help but regret his mother’s choices. Without them, her son would not be in this mess in the first place. Sighing, he tears his own eyes away from Belladonna’s smiling portrait, focussing them on his tea instead.

“We are extreme in this, Gandalf. If we leave… we are banished. You do know what that means to us, don’t you? If any Outsider sees our wings… my people have abandoned those they were made to protect long ago so that we ourselves would be safe, and for centuries hobbits made sure no one would find out ever again. If I were to endanger our secret… they would not be kind. I would be made to leave, and never come back.”

Not that he will have to look for another place to spend the rest of his life once that happens, short as it will be then.

The thought alone sends shivers down his spine, and a different kind of pain strikes at his heart.

(This is still less terrifying, however, than the prospect of leaving his Charges without their Guardian, after everything they have gone through. His own choice, really, is not a choice at all. And maybe neither was his mother’s.)

Gandalf stares at Bilbo, eyes wide with dawning understanding and bottomless with the realization of what he has done. (For he, too, must have seen it in the hobbit’s face now. That there is no choice.)

“I… I see. I didn’t know that, your mother never told me. I am sorry I brought this upon you… I know little of your ways, but what Belladonna revealed to me, as you have kept them secret even from Saruman, but I can sense that these dwarves are in need of a Guardian for this journey-”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo interrupts Gandalf once again, voice almost bland with the terribly sharp Shadows of flaming memories scorching at the back of his head, “would have been in need of a Guardian for all his life!” Longer than he has even been alive. He could not have, _could not have_ been there – and still the Failure is burning through his veins, hot and blazing and devastating.

Ancient eyes catch the hobbit’s then, holding them with desperate fear.

“Who else?” the wizard asks, urgency deep in his voice, “Who else of them should have had a Guardian?”

Bilbo hesitates for a very long moment. It would not do anyone any good to know that, now would it? Gandalf does not need to learn how many of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company were defrauded of what help they deserved without even knowing-

…

“Dori,” he says tiredly, the knowledge that it might have been one of his Baggins relatives who deserted him (for their own protection, yes, but at the cost of their Charge’s happiness!) roiling deep in his stomach. “Bifur. Óin.” And… “Dwalin.”

Gandalf’s eyes widen. That, at least, he is aware of – that there are far less hobbits than Outsiders, and that only very few were ever meant to have a Guardian. That five out of thirteen is an almost obscenely high number.

“They might still need their Guardians”, he remarks, as casually as he manages. The hobbit, however, sees the desperate hope in his eyes.

He averts his gaze. “I know.”

“Then why don’t you-”

“They need Defenders, Gandalf,” Bilbo interrupts him almost angrily, the Failure burning on, finding its way deeper and deeper into his bones. He is not a Defender, and never will be. “If you were to send a random Guardian with them, on an adventure such as this one – what good would a Comforter do? Also, there is no way they would survive this if they were not travelling with their Charge!”

Gandalf, once again, stares at him, shoulders slumped.

“I see.”

And, Bilbo believes, he really does. And – he would bet – the wizard also knows that he will be coming anyway. A Comforter, what good can he do?

Yet, there is no staying here, not when his Charges need him.

He might as well get used to the thought of black wings.

 

~*~*~

 

Bilbo goes after them because after having felt the Pull, having felt their Shadows rasping against his Light, having felt the Failure burn its way ever more deeply into his heart – he knows he will not be able to stay here and continue on with his life, having abandoned his Charges… not by force, but by choice.

A choice no proper Guardian would ever make, and that is what it really comes down to, isn’t it? That is the reason the hobbits first chose to hide within the safety of the Shire, where they might be overlooked by all Outsiders and live without their Charges and never meet them, and why they consigned the rest of Middle-Earth to its fate by settling here, in the safe haven granted to them by Yavanna. The one Vala who showed mercy at their pleas.

Because, more often than not, the Guardians were harmed in their attempts to help their Charges.

Because many did not realize how much they were granted, having a Guardian of their own, and attempted to use them for means other than the ones they were destined for.

Because these soft, peaceful creatures, who were never made to fight, _died_ in the battles of their Charges, while those they were supposed to protect lived, to a point until there were almost too few hobbits left to secure the survival of their people, only a scant three of the old family lines still existing today.

And no matter how awful Bilbo might feel for his people’s choice to abandon their Charges, no matter how much the Shadows in Dori and Bifur and Óin might pain him, he also knows that the choice to save themselves had been the right one. The only one.

Unfortunately, there is only one choice for him now, too.

 

~*~*~

 

They sing.

They _sing_ , and, Valar, he really would not have needed them to sing of their lost home with quite so mournful voices to add even further to his agony.

They sing, and as they finally retire to the hastily prepared beds and mattresses believing they will have no burglar Bilbo lies awake, mentally compiling his packing list, trying to decide what he can take along, and what he will have to leave here. (What will be lost to him forever.)

He packs in the dark of night, when thirteen dwarves and a wizard are fast asleep, and then cries himself into Irmo’s arms, small hands gripping the beautiful knitted blanket that once used to warm Belladonna and Bungo in cold nights.

A blanket that will never warm him again.

 

~*~*~

 

He has to run after them in the morning, contract hastily signed, because in the end he did fall asleep after all.

They may have left, may have already brought a few miles between them and his beloved hobbit hole, but the pain is still there, less urgent yet no less torturing, and there is no mistaking the direction he can feel it from.

Bilbo takes the time to leave the key to Bag End with Hamfast – he might have to hurry to catch up with Thorin Oakenshield and his company, but that is no reason the smial his father built for his mother to live and raise their beloved child in should go to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, now that he cannot ever return to it – before running without looking back.

Had he turned around again, he is sure he would have cried.

 

~*~*~

 

After all, leaving your home behind forever is not easy in any way, no matter how little of a choice it may be. (Or maybe even because of that.)

 

~*~*~

 

Bilbo can feel their Lights all crowding against his own the moment he comes rushing around the corner, breathing heavily and allowing the pain of those Shadows that should not be there to drown out the pain of leaving behind what little remains of his parents’ spirits in Middle-Earth.

Gandalf smiles in that superiorly smug way of his, even though there is a dark glimmer of sadness to his eyes – he knows, he knows now what this means for a hobbit, and that he is the one to have ultimately sparked Bilbo’s decision – and a number of the dwarves exchange money (really, they enjoy betting on others’ lives? For if they indeed do not honestly expect him to survive this quest, or whatever they are calling it, then that is exactly what they did). Thorin Oakenshield, however, does not smile, or collect his winnings, or even raise his voice.

All he does is stare at Bilbo, terribly blue eyes dark with doubt and derision. (And, oh, he has every right to doubt the one who has Failed him thusly, but that does not mean it does not hurt still.)

“Give him a pony.”

And that, well, is not what Bilbo would have liked to hear either. But, there are worse things Guardians have done for their Charges than spending hours riding creatures whose very presence their own bodies could barely tolerate. He is only too aware of the shapes of those two Shadows ever pressing against his own Light, after all, and no matter how much he might wish for it to be different – what they need is a Defender, and defend them he shall, with everything he has. (Even if it might just be with the Words of a Comforter.)

Their reaction hurts, but not more than the Shadows, and he can deal with that. He has to.

He will not Fail them again.

 

~*~*~

 

He does Fail them again.

He tries his best, oh, he does! The pain of empty nothingness and too sharp edges is never far from his mind, and with every step he takes away from his home and towards what is most likely going to be a gruesome death his resolve to help them, to not allow any further pain to torment them, hardens.

Yet, there is little a Comforter can do against three monstrous mountain trolls, is there?

Oh, he does what Comforters do best, he talks to them, spinning Words and tales and comfort until Gandalf arrives and saves them all, but. That accomplishment matters little in the face of Thorin’s boiling anger and Dwalin’s frustrated disappointment.

After all, Bilbo was the one who got them caught in the first place.

 

~*~*~

 

After a few days of mock and scorn and angry glances Bilbo had finally found a source of light amongst all the shadows. (For he is only too aware of the ever-growing dark spot on his own Light, arising from the point where his bond to the Shire was _snapped_ – and fortunately no one asked after the reason for his low pained cry during dinner a few evenings before – with his Banishment and which is spreading, slowly but surely, with every taunting word and every condescending glance.)

Bofur truly is a light amongst darkness, a bright soul amongst a sea of doubts and Shadows.

He smiles quickly and sings loudly (and not even remotely close to key) and sits with Bilbo during supper when the hobbit would have eaten alone otherwise, with hunched shoulders and his head hung low.

He, too, is the one to come find Bilbo after the incident with the trolls, when Gandalf has pressed the elvish sword into his small shaking hands (claiming him to need a way to defend himself, whether he is a Defender or not), clasping his shoulder and grinning widely.

“Be careful not to skewer yerself with that,” he cheerfully instructs the hobbit – because that is how Bofur deals with whatever might scare him, making fun of it until it no longer feels quite that terrible.

“I’ll try my best not to,” Bilbo promises weakly, sceptically eying the sharp weapon in his hands. At least, he tiredly thinks, it is an elvish weapon and as such rather light, he genuinely doubts he would even be able to properly lift it otherwise.

Bofur laughs softly and reaches out for the smaller one’s belt, helping him secure the sword in a way that will – hopefully – keep him from hurting himself. Thoughtful eyes on the elegantly curved blade and the deadly edge he cannot help but wonder whether he might not, after all, be able to use it to yet defend his Charges. Perhaps – perhaps he will not be such a disappointment, such a complete Failure, after all.

 

~*~*~

 

There is one rule the hobbits have not forgotten, not even after all this time. Amongst the legends and songs and stories about the small and great and everything in between deeds they have done alongside their Charges, there are also those which speak of a terrible ending. There are warnings that are still uttered today, no matter how long since their task has been abandoned – never _ever_ fall in love with your Charge.

It leads to naught but misery and pain.

 

~*~*~

 

Bilbo cannot help but think that he must be an exceptionally bad Guardian after all.

Or maybe just an exceptionally bad hobbit.

Or both.

 

~*~*~

 

Elrond’s hand is as large and gentle as the shine of his seemingly all-encompassing Light as it settles on Bilbo’s small back, both warmth and comfort spreading from the careful touch.

“Come, Master Baggins,” the elf softly prompts, leading him away from where the dwarves are making a huge ruckus.

Bofur almost interrupts his song, but Bilbo gives him a tiny smile before allowing Elrond to guide him around the corner. With every step he takes the sharp, empty Shadows of Dwalin’s and Thorin’s Lights become less and less prominent, almost drowned out by the deep, peaceful soul that is the Lord of Rivendell. Imladris, as the elves call it, is illuminated by his gentle Light for as far as the borders of the Last Homely House reach, a protective blanket wrapped around everything within.

Bilbo, of course, does not miss the tiny speck of grey against the otherwise immaculate glow. He does not ask, however. It is not his place.

The Lord of Rivendell leads him through a number of beautiful arching corridors and what appears to be his personal lounge, onto a half-hidden balcony looking out over the waterfall and the peaceful valley. A delicate table is already laid out, a steaming pot of tea waiting next to a cooled bottle of what is no doubt very expensive wine, and a number of sweet delicacies arranged around them.

“Sit, Master Baggins,” Elrond gently urges him and Bilbo eagerly follows the request, climbing onto one of the two large chairs topped up with a number of obscenely comfortable cushions.

“Thank you,” he quietly says when the ancient elf hands him an elegant cup filled with steaming hot tea.

“You are most welcome,” Elrond smiles in return, pouring himself a glass of the wine before finally relaxing. He closes his eyes and allows his head to rest against the wall behind him, a small smile making it onto his lips as he takes his first sip. “Briar Gamwich,” he slowly begins, smile still on his lips, and Bilbo almost feels that grey spot vibrate upon the uttering of that name, “was my Dreamwatcher, many decades ago. For a long time I had been plagued by nightmares after losing my beautiful Celebrían, and almost losing my daughter as well. He stumbled into my life with a number of Tooks who forced him to come along, if I understand correctly, and stayed when he realized how dearly I needed his help.” The smile is still there on those pale, ageless lips, and Bilbo watches with rapt fascination. “He was a hobbit yet, with the lifespan of one, but when he passed… he had given me back as much peace as I could ever have, after the sailing of my beloved wife.” Elrond opens his eyes, then, and now smiles more openly. “Many a year has come and gone since then, and I still drink the ridiculously sweet wine he introduced me to. It, too, gives me peace.” He sighs contently, looking across the valley where the sun is slowly descending, and Bilbo basks in the peaceful comfort his Light offers. “I know not why your Lady Yavanna did not take my memory, as she took every other non-hobbit’s, when you bound yourselves to your Shire instead… perhaps she did not wish to undo what Briar gave me, or perhaps she knew that I would always protect your secrets. Either way, I imagine there is a reason you chose to abandon the lands granted to you by her, and I would bet my firstborn son’s favourite bow that said reason is part of Thorin Oakenshield’s company. Worry not,” he adds upon the darkening of Bilbo’s eyes, “I will not inquire as to who it might be, nor will I make any assumptions. All I wish for is to share in memories of my long-dead Guardian with someone who might understand them, and perhaps free you of the chaos and loudness that is dwarves for the time being.”

Finally allowing himself to relax and smile as well Bilbo takes a sip of his tea, and closes his eyes in appreciation.

“You are more than right,” he agrees quietly, “that a break might be just what I need… be assured that I am most grateful.”

“It is a genuine offer, from a friend to a friend, and nothing to thank me for,” Elrond gently corrects him. “If you would allow me to call you friend that is.”

Bilbo’s smile widens. “Friends we shall be,” he consents, humming lowly at the feeling of warmth in his stomach. Whether it comes from the tea or Elrond’s offer, he could not say.

“Also,” the elf continues gently, reaching for one of the hobbit’s smaller hands, “know that you will always be welcome here, no matter what happens.” There is a deep sadness in his eyes filled with understanding, and Bilbo feels that loose thread where the Shire used to be throb painfully, achingly reminding him of what he has lost. “Gladly I will offer you what little comfort I can to be found in my halls for as long as you might wish to enjoy it.”

It seems he, too, knows what Banishment means for a hobbit such as him, a Guardian who is ever-distant from his Charges but cannot draw from the gentle strength of the Shire.

Distantly, Bilbo is aware that it is highly impolite and rather embarrassing, but Elrond called him friend but moments ago, so he cares little about the tears freely rolling down his cheeks when he understands that he might, after all, not have to die alone should he survive this against all odds and expectations.

 

~*~*~

 

Fíli and Kíli are the ones to wake him when morning has barely dawned, surprisingly gentle in their movements as they shake him from his slumber (the first fitful sleep in weeks, his mind treacherously reminds him) and usher him to put on his clothes.

“Come, Master Boggins,” Kíli whispers with a lopsided grin, “‘tis time to get up. Gandalf just came to tell us that the elves will be distracted for the time being, and uncle wants us to leave as soon as possible.”

“Up you go,” Fíli quietly adds, looking around the wide, fair chamber Bilbo was assigned by Elrond. “Is there anything you unpacked?”

Mutely shaking his head the hobbit wrestles his arms into his shirt even as Kíli is pulling his trousers up his hips. He would complain, really – the impropriety! – but, well, the boys are little more than children, and their Lights are bright and crowding against his own, unrestrained for the first time. He might have to leave Elrond behind without being able to say goodbye, but perhaps – perhaps – Bofur will not be his only friend on this Yavanna-forsaken journey.

 

~*~*~

 

Stepping across the borders of Imladris means being ripped from the sense of peace he has basked in this last few hours, and the Shadows come crashing in and against his battered Light more forcefully than ever.

Thorin, of course, has no kind words to say about someone longingly looking back at a place of elves.

 

~*~*~

 

No Guardian worth the hair on their feet and the wings on their back would ever willingly abandon their Charge. Being sent away by said Charge, however, is something few stories ever speak of, and a whole new level of terrifying and agonizing.

“He’s been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come! He has no place amongst us.”

Perhaps he ought to return to Rivendell after all, Bilbo thinks numbly, and try to find what comfort he can there, like Elrond offered. If it were his decision to make, he ponders, mind like cotton wool and the blood rushing in his ears, that is what he would do.

Sadly, the choice is, once more, not a choice at all.

He will not abandon those he was made to protect, he will not Fail them even more.

 

~*~*~

 

There is a terror that can barely be put into words to falling into an unknown abyss without any safety line, to playing games of riddles with one’s life as the prize for the winner with a warped creature that is all Shadow and no Light, to standing up to a furious Thorin Oakenshield, to fleeing from a pack of wargs only to realize that the single way on is down a cliff. To hang above the abyss once more barely held by a few last strands of Yavanna’s life, desperately praying to the Green Lady that she might grant one of the smallest mercy once more.

It all pales, however, in the face of the deep _horror_ that is Thorin running out to face Azog. Alone.

And seeing him lie there, barely moving and yet grasping for his sword with numb fingers, is more than any Guardian can stand, Comforter or no.

Words will be of little use to him now, and he is no Defender, he _knows not how to fight nor how to give his Charge the Strength he is lacking_ -

…

But there is a sword in his hands, small and shaking though they may be, and that will have to be enough.

There is no way he will allow himself to Fail them once more, even if it might cost him his life.

(His life, already worthless as it is, with no Shire to call home and no Charges to claim him.)

So if, by Azog striking Bilbo down, Thorin will live, at least this he will have nothing to regret. This way, both his heart and his soul may be saved after all.

 

~*~*~

 

Azog does not strike Bilbo down.

Fíli, Kíli and Dwalin come rushing in to defend him and their fallen King, their Lights ever so bright against his own and the nothingness on Dwalin’s not quite so empty any more.

Perhaps he did not Fail them this time, still.

 

~*~*~

 

Thorin’s eyes are so very deep, so very blue, and so very sincere as he stumbles to his feet, limping over to where Bilbo is standing with the assistance of his younger sister-son.

The hobbit might have been shocked, scared even, if not for the look in those terribly blue eyes.

The King steps before him, shoulders hunched in pain and a number of cuts and grazes littering his face but oh so beautifully alive, and – quite without warning – reaches out to pull Bilbo into a warm, comforting, gentle, real- … hug.

And something in his soul _snaps_ into place, their Lights crashing together, merging, until they are one. One Light and no Shadow, for there is his own where the sharp edges used to be in Thorin, and the empty nothingness in Dwalin, there are theirs where the deep bottomless pit was after the Banishment.

Dwalin, Bilbo realizes, is watching them with a smile on his lips that might almost be called soft, his own acceptance as obvious as Thorin’s in the joining of their Lights.

Bilbo has never felt that right.

(He has also never been that afraid.)

 

~*~*~

 

Bilbo is a Comforter, not a Defender, but he _will not Fail them_.

Not now that they finally trust him to care for them, like he was born to.

 

~*~*~

 

And if he did develop those really terribly inappropriate feelings for both of his Charges despite all the warnings in the old stories, well.

Then all he can do about that is accept that it really might go sideways in the end, and help them as best he can until then.

For, really, this, too, is not a choice at all.

 

~*~*~

 

Dwalin is watching him.

Thorin… Thorin is down in the treasury looking for the Arkenstone once again, and the longer Bilbo thinks about it, the more his is convinced that hiding the blasted thing away was, actually, a brilliant idea.

Oh, it is scaring him witless – feeling the darkness spread between the point where their Lights once melded, where they should be _one_ and where no Shadow ever ought to reside again-

Bilbo is a Comforter.

He is a Comforter, and a quite skilful one at that (having trained what abilities he could under the eager tutelage of his mother and the ever-watchful eyes of his father), yet his Words Fail him when he sets them to dancing, trying his very best and attempting any trick he knows to pull Thorin from his ever-growing madness.

Dwalin watches these desperate attempts with dark eyes, much like he watches Thorin spin further and further away, and Bilbo grow more and more distraught.

His Light, too, is fighting a Shadow creeping in from behind, and there is nothing Bilbo can do about it.

He has Failed them again.

 

~*~*~

 

“This vest is made of silver steel,” Thorin rumbles, clad in heavy armour and eyes bright with delight. The Shadow twists and whirls, like steam curling against the surface of a vitreous sphere, pushing against it and covering every inch but never finding a way in – for now. “Mithril it was called by my forebears. No blade can pierce it.”

He holds it out for Bilbo to pull over his head and, after a moment of hesitation, the hobbit complies, allows the other to help him. He is loath to deny Thorin anything, really, especially when the Shadows stay to the outskirts of his Light and there is such a smile on his lips.

If Bilbo can comfort him at least a little-

“I look absurd,” he complains none the less. “I’m not a warrior, I’m a hobbit.” _A Comforter, not a Defender!_

Oh, he wished-

“It is a gift,” Thorin says, eyes intent. “A token of our friendship.” A calloused hand clad in rich rings reaches for his own, smaller one then. “A courtship present, if you would allow it… proof of my affections.”

Bilbo’s thoughts stumble, and slam to a sudden halt.

… _what?_

Thorin is still smiling, and what is there to do but gulp and nod, ever so slowly?

Oh, Bilbo knows, he _knows_.

This is going to go as terribly wrong as all the stories ever promised, for he also knows where this evening will lead. What he has to do once night has fallen, and he carries little illusion that Thorin might still hold any affection for him after all is said and done. There is nothing to it, though.

Much like so many things ever since Gandalf came to him with this bloody adventure in tow, there is little choice.

He can feel the others’ Lights, brushing against his own from the adjacent armoury they are standing in. Bofur’s, Fíli’s and Kíli’s as bright as ever. Sweet Bombur’s, caring Dori’s, strong Ori’s, proud Glóin’s, affectionate Balin’s, helpful Óin’s, quick Nori’s, loveable Bifur’s. Their Lights so bright, almost blazing despite the dark spots in some of them. He cannot allow them to be snuffed out, just like that.

Dwalin’s.

Knitted so tightly to his own, much like Thorin’s.

No, this really is not a choice.

Neither is gently squeezing Thorin’s fingers, and allowing him to lead them away from the others – Dwalin’s gaze burning into his back.

 

~*~*~

 

“Did he offer you courtship?” Dwalin asks and it sounds half exhausted, half sad.

Bilbo, staring at the fires slowly being lit in Dale, shrugs tiredly.

“He did,” he agrees quietly, ever aware of the barely noticeable weight of the mithril vest, and the Shadows slowly gnawing their way into Thorin’s Light.

“Whose?”

Confused, and torn from his morose thoughts, Bilbo looks up, only to see Dwalin standing closer to him than he expected, out on the battlements.

“Whose what?”

“Whose courtship did he offer?” the tall dwarf clarifies, eyes as intent as Thorin’s mere hours before.

Bilbo blinks, gulps back the bile in his throat and forcing the torturous shade – another Failure, and this time he was here! – to the back of his mind. “His?”

Dwalin’s shoulders slump, though there is no surprise to be found in his gaze. “Only his?”

“Only his,” the hobbit slowly confirms after a short moment of confused hesitation.

Dwalin exhales deeply, and averts his gaze. “He is truly lost to us, then. To me.”

“He… what?” Bilbo inquires, heart bleeding with seeing his Charge – his love – so broken. He is a Comforter for Yavanna’s sake, he ought to have the right Words to comfort the other!

And still-

The burly warrior huffs out a laugh, and it sounds so terribly sad and _desperate_ Bilbo might have cried.

“He’s my One,” Dwalin admits, voice low, and the hobbit might have asked, just to keep up appearances – the place where their Lights are not quite touching but molten together like liquid silver providing him with as much of an explanation as he needs – were he not so shocked by the meaning behind those words. Yavanna _no_. He just accepted an offer of courtship from another being’s One and Only- … “We knew ever since we both came of age. We never told anyone, though, because we both felt it – that there was someone missing. Another person, meant just for the Two of us.” Dwalin stares into the distance, and Bilbo’s heart is thudding in his chest. “We chose to wait for them, before we finalized everything, wishing to share a courtship only with that piece we were still missing… and we waited for many, many years. Imagine our surprise, then,” he continues, almost wryly, “when we finally found them after stepping through a round green door.”

_What?_

“We were not exactly excited,” Dwalin explains, lips now twitching, and Bilbo feels his heart break, “to find out that the One we had been searching for so long… was actually a tiny being, meant to accompany us on a rather dangerous quest. To steal from a dragon, no less. When I realized what this meant – I think my heart stopped in my chest.”

He sighs, before turning around, eyes slowly searching for Bilbo’s until they find them, holding the hobbit’s gaze with his own terribly sincere one.

Ever so slowly he reaches out, his huge, scar-littered paw grasping the hobbit’s wringing hands (a desperate attempt to keep himself from crying), and – suddenly – there is a terrifying tenderness to his expression.

“We did wrong by you, Master Baggins, with how we treated you. No matter whether it was due to our shock about who you turned out to be, or our very real fear that we might lose you yet again, claimed by our very own quest – our treatment of you shames me, and I do not have the words to tell you how much I regret it.”

Bilbo sits frozen, his thoughts having slammed to a halt for the second time this day. He does not, however, pull his hands from Dwalin’s gentle grasp, and it is that which appears to give the huge warrior the strength and courage to continue.

“I have loved Thorin for all my life. The moment I met him, I lost my heart to the great person that was Thorin, son of Thráin, Prince Under the Mountain. We promised ourselves to each other the moment we _knew_ , and we decided to wait until we found you to properly court, so that we might court you together as well as each other.” He huffs out another one of those desperate laughs, and Bilbo’s heart breaks yet again. This time, for a different reason. “I hope you will forgive me, my One, that I am not as excited about hearing the joyous news of your courtship as I should be, seeing as it does not include me like I always expected.”

The hobbit gulps painfully, grasping the other’s hand more tightly and reaching out for that Shadow growing still, drawing together his Words so that he may comfort and soothe after all.

“Dwalin-”

“I would ask you, Master Baggins,” Dwalin interrupts him, voice raw, “to keep this knowledge to yourself. No matter Thorin’s and my agreement to approach you once Erebor is secured, he has approached you with his offer, and I shall do nothing to destroy what you have. I always knew that, one day, I might lose him to the very madness that claimed his grandfather. But know that I love you, and always will – the both of you. Perhaps, one day… he will be sane enough to see me again, too.”

Holding on to the large hand as if it were a lifeline (as it might well be, with how fast the Shadow is making its way through their Light) Bilbo forcefully reaches for the Words of comfort through their bond and draws them forward with everything he has, knowing that he cannot Fail Dwalin too.

“And I love you,” he hears himself say, a confession that would have taken all of his courage at any other time but now comes easy in the face of his Charge’s despair. “You… the two of you were really not what I expected either, but there really wasn’t a choice. You took my heart quite insistently, without me ever having offered it.”

_I know not whether I will be punished for this as terribly as all Guardians before me who allowed their hearts to be claimed by their Charges, but I do know that I was born to love you, much like you were forged and born to love me._

“And while you might have taken me from my home, while we might all be marching to our deaths – I will never regret having followed you, and I will never regret loving you. Both of you.”

_I can only pray that, one day, you might be able to forgive me._

Seeing the happy smile on Dwalin’s lips may well be worth what torture will come next.

 

~*~*~

 

“Do not speak to me of loyalty!” Thorin hisses, eyes bright with madness and Light dark with Shadows. Dwalin, standing behind him, is frozen in shock, face a mask of betrayal. “Throw him from the ramparts!”

Oh, Bilbo had known that after this – giving the Arkenstone to Bard – he would have forfeited his life, broken as their bond would inevitably be. He had not expected it to happen this way, though. Nor had he expected it to hurt quite that much.

“Curse you!” Thorin grinds out, spittle flying as he grabs the hobbit to throw him down himself. Bilbo, limp and numb, offers no resistance, his whole body on fire as two Lights are torn from where they were melded with his own. It is Fíli who moves to stop his uncle, bright, eager Fíli, not Dwalin, and that is enough to tear the last lingering threads of their bond, the _snap_ so much louder and indefinitely more painful than the one caused by the Banishment was all those nights ago.

It is over.

There is nothing left to fight for – he has done his best to keep them save, even if he has Failed to be the Defender they deserve, and Failed to be their Comforter as well. Both Lights are dark and blackened, sharp edges warring with the smoky Shadow of madness in Thorin’s and another layer to the empty nothingness in Dwalin’s.

They are by far not as darkened as his own, however, the blackness quickly, greedily growing from the point where the two dwarves used to be. (And from where his heart used to be.)

He barely registers Gandalf’s demands to release him, barely manages to climb down with numb limbs and a mind even number, even as pain rages through his veins. The arrival of Dáin Ironfoot (Thorin’s cousin, as the pain in the place where the King should have been informs him), the skirmish with Thranduil’s elves, the news that an army of orcs is marching against them – all that matters little in the face of his agony.

He has heard of bonds broken this way. Much like the snapped connection to the Shire, this will kill a Guardian, for there is no survival without home nor Charge – only faster.

There is no telling what the breakage of two bonds might do.

(It is not hard to guess, though, with how quickly the darkness is spreading across his own weakening Light. It will not be long now, and he has little reason to stay and fight.)

 

~*~*~

 

The sudden withdrawal of the gold-cursed madness from Thorin’s blazing Light comes crashing into him like a mace, tearing him out of his stupor where he has curled himself against the foot of the battlements, invisible by the grace of the Ring.

They are going to fight.

Azog has come with his army, and Thorin will lead his Company into battle after all, to help his allies and save his kin.

With this realisation comes a rush of new fire through Bilbo’s blood, fire of a different kind that dispels the numbness and stops the Shadow’s advance.

He will die anyway, there is one more thing he can offer them, one more chance to make up for his Failures.

Thorin and Dwalin are owed a Defender.

And he shall give them one.

 

~*~*~

It is hard, to do right by one’s Charge without a present bond.

Of course, a Guardian will still feel some of what is troubling those they were made to look out for (if not receive explicit information, like Bilbo does – it seems in this, too, he is different) but it is hard to do and give just what one’s Charge needs without the Instinct that comes with the bond. A Comforter may be good at listening and soothing, but they will be just a friend if they do not find the right Words. A Caretaker may have a knack for raising children and keeping families together, but there will never be as much happiness as might be if there is no way to share the Love. A Catcher may have excellent reflexes, yet they matter little if he cannot rely on their joined Speed. A Dreamwatcher’s bedtime stories are no more than that without the exchange of Ideas.

And a Defender’s Strength is worth nothing if he cannot gift it to his Charge.

 

~*~*~

 

Thorin, of course, decides that confronting Azog alone, without an army at his back, is a good idea. And the ones he takes to accompany him are, _of course_ , his brightly shining sister-sons, barely more than boys, and Dwalin, the one he trusts above all else.

Bilbo knows that the other hobbits will never forget his betrayal.

That Yavanna, too, might not forgive him, carelessly throwing away what she has gifted them with as he is about to.

There is nothing to it, though.

 

~*~*~

 

He has lost everything already.

 

~*~*~

 

He will not Fail them again.

 

~*~*~

 

Arriving on the top of Ravenhill he desperately gasps for air, exhausted in every sense of the word – in body, mind and soul – and wondering where in Yavanna’s name he might find the strength to go on.

All tiredness leaves him, however, upon the sight before him. Thorin is locked in a duel with the Pale Orc, desperately using what little space he has, his sister-sons lying on the frozen ground behind him, unmoving and unconscious, while Dwalin is attempting the equally impossible feat of holding off the horde of orcs and goblins pouring in from the other side, alone.

Now.

_Forgive me, my Lady, for disappointing you thusly._

Amidst the clamour and yelling, yet unnoticed by anyone, he closes his eyes. Inhales deeply, exhales just as slowly, and when the last breath has left his lungs his wings break free.

Oh, it _hurts_ , just as he knew it would – away from the protection of the Shire – and the deep black he can see from the corners of his eyes adds an additional layer of pain.

A shocked exclamation tears him from his personal torture though, and upon raising his head he sees both Thorin and Azog stare at him.

The Pale Orc, however, is the first to recover.

There is no time left to lose. Tearing the little elvish sword from its place at his hip he powerfully beats his wings once, twice, until they lift him up into the air. No time left to lose, no Instinct to rely on, no Strength to share-

He comes crashing down towards Azog, glowing weapon held out in front of him, and wills every little bit of what he has still left to flow into Thorin and Dwalin, to cross the gap and aid them, he will not Fail again, he _cannot_ Fail this time-

 

~*~*~

 

Bilbo is almost used to the pain by now.

 

~*~*~

 

And to the darkness.

 

~*~*~

 

There is warmth.

It is dark, but warm, and comfortable… not quite what he expected. Perhaps the Green Lady has forgiven his careless discarding of her Gift after all?

A low noise reaches his twitching ears, that of pages being shifted against each other, the scratching of a quill. Two people breathing.

A sudden jolt of joy hits him, at the prospect of seeing his parents again-

Opening his eyes, it turns out, was not as hard as he had first thought, no matter his exhaustion and the terrible pounding threatening to split his head. All that matters little, however, when – upon his surprised gasp – both Thorin and Dwalin raise their heads from where they are bent across a heavy desk, piles of paper between them.

“Bilbo!” Thorin cries, jumping to his feet and rushing towards the… bed? the hobbit appears to be lying in, with Dwalin barely managing to catch the suddenly flying inkwell before he, too, hurries over to his side.

“How are you feeling?”

Confused. Yes, that would be a suitable answer. He had honestly expected to wake up in the Lady’s Garden, after having crashed into Azog with such force-

Both dwarves’ eyes are bright with both concern and relief, and Dwalin carefully reaches for one of his limp hands.

“Do you need us to get Óin?”

“N-no,” Bilbo manages to rasp, mouth surprisingly dry. “W-what-”

“Thank Mahal,” Thorin abruptly murmurs, only to fall to his knees and bow his head, his shoulders suddenly shaking. “Thank Mahal you woke up, we were terribly worried- … you’ve been unconscious for so long and no one understood, not even Gandalf could really explain- … Thank Mahal.”

Dwalin reaches out to clasp his shoulder in an attempt to soothe his companion, his other hand still holding on to the hobbit’s.

“Bilbo,” he says, voice quite serious, “please tell us what we might do for you. I… we know that we have failed you terribly, and should you not wish to remain here with us we understand, just… please, tell us how we might make you feel better.”

“I-…” What even- “You Failed me?” he manages to slur incredulously, and Thorin raises his head, tears streaming down his face still covered in cuts and bruises, even though most seem to be well on their way to healed.

“I tried to kill you. And… I don’t really know what else I did, Gandalf didn’t know the details, but he said you could never return to your home, you looked terrible, and you were so very weak, so terribly close to death-…”

Bilbo slowly shakes his head, despite the pain, in a desperate attempt to clear it – only to stop, frozen in mid-movement. And after everything that has happened, and with the pain still cursing through him (pain of a different kind though it may be), he thinks he should be forgiven for not noticing sooner, even though it should have been obvious. Even though it should have been the first thing that he saw. But, well.

There is but one Light in the chamber, and no Shadow to be found upon it. Three souls knit together more tightly than even before the bonds had been broken, which _should not be possible_ , broken bonds cannot be reforged, but- … there is no mistaking the single, bright shine. (And perhaps dwarves, masters of all crafts, are the only beings who might ever have a chance of reforging something like a bond broken by force.)

The Words come like they always should have, a good Comforter as he is.

“I love you.”

 

~*~*~

 

Bombur and Bifur are the last ones to arrive, laden with food.

Bofur ushers them into the now quite crowded room, closing the door behind them, and Balin cleans the heavy stone desk for the food.

Fíli and Kíli crow with delight upon spotting the meat-pies (Belladonna’s special recipe, prepared by Bilbo’s instructions) and the elder prince rises to seize two of them, one for himself and the other for his brother who is still not allowed to walk, what with the state of his leg.

Dwalin chuckles at the boys’ antics, strong arm firmly wound around the hobbit’s slim shoulders, and Thorin rolls his eyes in exasperation. He reaches out, gently tugging at one of the two braids framing Bilbo’s face, and his smile is so very happy it makes the smallest of the three want to cry.

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Nori shouts over the clamour of the dwarves trying to get the best food, “We were promised a story. I want to hear it!”

Bilbo cannot help but smile, an incredible fondness racing his heart. Basking in the soft glow of so many Lights, and leaning into the gentle touches of his two intended, he finds himself nodding.

“And a story you shall have,” he quietly says, and immediately all present dwarves’ attention turns to him. “I must, however, ask you to swear never to speak of this to anyone. It is a secret of my people, carefully kept, and a Gift given to us by Lady Yavanna. I have broken many a rule already, but the safety of hobbits depends on this.”

“I swear,” Fíli is the first to raise his voice, the others quickly joining in, “to never tell anyone what you are about to tell us. On my honour.”

A dwarf’s honour, Bilbo knows by now, is not a simple nor a small thing.

He nods once more, smiling when Thorin reaches for his hand.

“Hobbits were never meant to hide like we do now, in the Shire. We were made to help, and help we did. Every one of us is the Guardian to another being, a member of the free peoples of Middle-Earth. There are five different kinds of Guardians: Catchers, and Dreamwatchers, and Caretakers, and Comforters, and Defenders.”

He tells them the abilities of each, and what families might bring forth the most of every kind. He speaks of how they were almost destroyed, long ago, by the very beings they were meant to help, and how the Green Lady finally answered their prayers and gifted them with the Shire, a place to sustain them in the absence of a Charge bond. He discloses the terrible state his people had been in at that time, and how they had made up strict laws: that no Outsider should ever learn of their skills, so that they would not ever be abused like this again, and that no hobbit was allowed to leave the Shire. The bond to this place would persist, however, no matter how far a hobbit might wander, so the heads of the three remaining families came up with a ritual to break that bond, the Banishment. So that no one would ever be tempted to leave and look for their Charge due to bad conscience, for without a bond of any kind there was no survival.

“Were you – were you banished?” Bofur asks, voice small and wringing his hands.

Bilbo nods slowly. “Two days before the incident with the trolls,” he admits quietly, drawing strength and comfort from the presence of his Two. “It… hurt quite terribly, but Elrond soothed the pain in Rivendell, and Thorin initiated our bond atop the Carrock, followed by Dwalin. It is rather rare, to be honest, having more than one Charge. But, well, perhaps it runs in my blood – my mother was Gandalf’s Guardian after all.”

“So when you came after us,” Ori speaks up, voice unsteady and eyes watery, “you knew that you could never return? You willingly sacrificed your home… so that we might reclaim ours?”

“I cried myself to sleep that night,” Bilbo confesses hesitantly, and Thorin’s grip of his hand tightens sharply. “I also knew that it would be worth it, though, that _you_ would be worth it, and that choice was one I never regretted.”

A bit of a commotion breaks out, then, when Dori barrels past Thorin and Dwalin and right into Bilbo, pulling him into a deep hug that makes his soul dance across the shared Light that is the three.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” he quietly whispers, “I cannot thank you enough for what you have given us.”

Bilbo smiles, and reaches for Dori’s hand, and allows a grumbling Dwalin to pull him back against the large dwarf’s chest, holding onto Thorin all the while. He might have given up his home, but he has found a new one, here, with his Company – his family. He might have lost the Shire, but gained so much in turn.

Continuing slowly he explains how their wings turn black upon being banished, no matter the state of their bond with their Charges, and how his bonds had been broken when Thorin had moved to kill him, but how his Two had managed to reforge them in defiance of every hobbit legend ever told.

He tells them that his people have no One, and that none are meant to ever develop feelings for their Charges, but that Yavanna and Mahal must have forged him as Thorin’s and Dwalin’s from the beginning.

That Thorin and Dwalin were in so dire need of the Defender they should have had, if not for the greed of a few many years past, and that they might just know how to make use of a Comforter ready to defend them as well.

It is only later, when the rest of the Company has left and the three of them are alone, that Thorin finally asks the question that must have been plaguing him during half of the conversation.

“You are a Comforter, right? That’s what you said?”

“I am,” Bilbo agrees, leaning into the warmth that is Dwalin, body and Light.

“But your actions on Ravenhill… from what you told us, they are those of a Defender,” the King Under the Mountain rumbles, frowning in confusion. “And you said that it was a Defender we should have had.”

“They were,” Bilbo agrees once more, before sighing and reaching for Thorin’s hands, “and yes. The two of you were always meant to have a Defender, and never a Comforter. I was… trying to give you what you were _owed_ , no matter my own status. It is not unheard of, a Guardian learning different skills for their Charge. What is quite unheard of, though, is managing to pass on any Strength across the gaps of a broken bond, Defender or no. I do not know how I managed, nor why I survived this mad attempt. I gave the two of you everything I had, and I honestly did not expect to wake up again.”

A gurgled cry of pain and guilt escapes Thorin’s lips, and Dwalin’s arms around his torso tighten their hold.

“You should not have-”

“I Failed you before, so terribly,” Bilbo calmly, softly interrupts him, for this he is sure of: His choice, though it may not have been much of one, was the right one to make. “I was not going to Fail you again.”

Thorin gulps helplessly, lost in the face of their hobbit’s conviction, before sharing a meaningful glance with Dwalin across Bilbo’s shoulder, making the smallest smile fondly.

“You, Bilbo Baggins,” the King begins gravely, “owe us nothing, and you most certainly did not fail us. If anything, we failed you – and yet you agreed to generously to allow us to atone for it. Despite everything, you gave us permission to court you. There is nothing, _nothing_ in this world we would not give you should you ask for it.”

“And everything we are and have, we have been given by you,” Dwalin quietly adds. “So please, never again claim to owe us. We owe you.”

Gaping at them Bilbo sits frozen for but a moment, before his Words return and a small smile fights its way onto his lips.

“The only things you owe me is your love and devotion,” he says, reaching out to tug his own braid behind Thorin’s ear.

 

~*~*~

 

_After all, I was born to love you, much like you were forged and born to love me._

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, this happened.


End file.
